


To All A Good Night

by KatZen



Series: Semper Familia [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bobby Singer's Actual A+ Parenting, Christmas, Cooking, Fluff, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Teenage Winchesters, references to slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatZen/pseuds/KatZen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas time in Morgantown, WV, and in true Dickens fashion, there are lots of ghosts in Sam Winchester's past.</p>
<p>One of them wants to come to Christmas dinner.</p>
<p>(One-shot in the universe of "Semper Familia".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To All A Good Night

**Author's Note:**

> So it's not Christmas, and it's not July for a Christmas-in-July type of thing, but I finally actually finished this and I wanted to post it really bad. Because I'd had several people request timestamps in regards to the boys reconnecting with John, but also because...
> 
> I'm planning to revisit the "Semper Familia" universe in the form of a sequel, ~~and for that I need a beta. Like, a committed beta who will agree to kick my ass. So I figured I would put out this story as a treat and see if I could find anyone to take me up on beta duties. If you're interested please let me know in a comment or via PM on FF.N, where my name is Maddy77.~~ Wonderful beta found! Always happy for an extra set of eyes if there's another volunteer. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

"Okay. Look, I'll talk to him, but I'm not promising anything."

Sam closed the door quietly behind him, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference: Dean would hear him anyway. Sure enough, his brother looked up and smiled, nodding a greeting. He looked tired, Sam thought. His smile was strained.

"I gotta go. I'll let you know," Dean said into the phone. "Yeah. Sure. Bye." He set the phone down on its cradle and turned fully to Sam, his smile a little more genuine this time. "Hey, Sammy. How was school?"

"Who was that?" Sam asked instead of answering, prying his shoes off and setting them carefully next to the door. He set his backpack down and peeled off his coat and sweater, hanging the coat on the rack and folding the sweater precisely.

Dean watched the ritual with the weird hint of sadness he always watched it with, and as always, Sam ignored it. He couldn't be messy. It was far too beaten into him to be clean and discreet and out of the way, and he was trying too hard to fix other habits to tackle this harmless one. When he was done, Sam flopped into the couch and sprawled out. It was deliberate, sloppy gestures to make up for his precise cleaning, but it always unwound Dean's shoulders, just a little.

"Dean?" Sam prompted, when Dean didn't answer, but went to sit on the other side of the couch. "Who was on the phone?"

A moment. A hesitation, and Sam felt an old, familiar sense of fear claw at his throat. He sat up, resisting the urge to grab the hem of Dean's shirt or the cuff of his sleeve like he did sometimes when it was too much. Dean seemed to sense the change in him and turned, putting a hand on his ankle, and said, "No, Sammy, it's okay. It's nothing bad. It's just—it was Dad. On the phone."

Sam stilled. Tried to think of something to say, and managed: "Oh."

Dean's eyes searched his as he continued. "He just...he called because it's Christmas, coming up, and he...wanted to know if he could come to Morgantown to be with us. For Christmas."

Sam relaxed a little bit. That was not as bad as he'd imagined. And as much as the thought of seeing his father made his stomach tie in knots, there was no way he could deny Dean the company of _his_ father on Christmas, which he knew intellectually was a big deal for most people. So he said, "Whatever you want, Dean."

But Dean's eyebrows pulled together in a frown, and Sam wondered what he'd said wrong.

"Sammy, it's not about what I want," Dean argued. "It's about what you're okay with. What you need. That's what I promised you, remember? A safe place. You don't want Dad here—and nobody would blame you if you don't—he doesn't come."

Sam looked down, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his slacks.

It had been six months since they’d seen their father, and that was at a diner—a public place, away from their sanctuary, somewhere neutral. It was awkward, but worth it to see the way Dean’s eyes brightened, even as he remained cautious and protective of Sam.

Dean missed their father.

He never said it. Not out loud. But Sam knew. It had been Dean and John for so long, alone together on the road, and this new status quo—with Dean as the head of the household—was jarring for him. He was used to taking orders from his father, having his actions planned by John, and now there was no one to plan for the future but himself.

Sometimes Sam thought he and Dean had more in common than he’d imagined.

Sam could tell by the way Dean would sometimes stare at his phone, scrolling through too many numbers to land on _Bobby_ , before putting it away. He could tell by the way Dean would start to tell a story and then cut off, refusing to resume even when Sam asked—and Dean never denied him anything.

Dean missed John, but he would cut him off forever if that’s what Sam wanted. If that’s even what he guessed Sam wanted. He would never speak to his father again.

Having that kind of power over Dean frightened Sam, when he was being honest with himself. Dean was too good, too strong, too sure for Sam to have that kind of power.

But he did, which is why he decided not to use it.

“I’ve never had a family Christmas before,” he murmured, and Dean’s face lit up, though he tried to contain it. “Maybe it would be a good time for me and your—me and Dad to try again, at home this time.”

“You’re sure?” Dean asked, taking his hand and rubbing a thumb over his pulse point.

Not remotely. “I’m sure,” Sam replied, forcing a smile.

“You’re not."

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean said, “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam was silent.

“You don’t have to do this for me. But I’m not gonna push you. If you think you’re ready, I’m not gonna say you’re not.” Dean squeezed Sam’s hand, then pushed up off the couch, heading for the kitchen. Sam watched him as he went. “We got spaghetti tonight, that sound okay to you?”

“Yeah,” Sam called, still sitting on the couch. “Sounds great, Dean.”

Dean made a contented noise and Sam could hear the sounds of cooking begin in the kitchen.

Sam slowed his breathing.

*

December twenty-first.

Four days until Christmas, and the red and white and green decor surrounding him reminded Sam every minute of the impending visit.

School was out and Dean was off of work for the day, and they were going to buy a tree. Dean said that the trees got cheaper the closer you got to Christmas, as people got more desperate to sell them, but Sam thought they were still really expensive.

(There was a part of him that still compared expensive goods to how much he was sold for. Some of the pricier trees were nearly one-fifteenth his cost. One Sam equalled fifteen trees. He did not examine how he felt about it; he just knew that he did those calculations as automatically as breathing.)

His fingers closed around Dean’s cuff.

He felt Dean freeze for just a second.

“See one you like?” Dean asked, his thumb coming up underneath Sam’s wrist and passing over it, just once. A quick _are you okay_?

“They all look pretty much the same.” Sam tried to force some good-natured grumpiness into his voice. “Green, spiky, triangular.”

Dean laughed, bright and grateful, no doubt noticing the effort Sam was putting into this interaction.

“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch.”

Sam smiled, because that was a reference he got.

Dean tugged him over to a medium-sized tree (a good deal: one-fiftieth of a Sam in price). It was full enough, scraggly in a couple of places but Dean assured him that they could just turn that side to the wall and no one would be the wiser.

(That didn’t make a ton of sense, since nobody really came to the apartment, and Dean and Sam already knew, so—)

(Oh.)

(Dean’s—their dad.)

Sam made sounds and said moderately appropriate words in all the right places even as he felt his heart descend into his stomach. If there was one thing he was really good at, it was hiding these things—these normal things that twisted him up. Dean hated it when he found out, got so unhappy when he realized Sam was keeping that from him, and that disappointment and anger (self-directed, of course, Dean only got mad at _Dean_ when Sam was hiding things, never got mad at Sam) was almost enough to stop Sam from doing it anymore but they were in _public_ . He couldn’t dissolve like that in _public_. Not with so many people around to see what a mess he was.

So he followed Dean amiably enough as his brother took the tree and bought it, sliding his hard-earned cash to the seller, and Sam only had to bite down on his lip hard enough to hurt, not to bleed, as he followed that money with his eyes.

(The money was flat, sliding across the table, not bundled, not rolled. The money was _always rolled_ when it was for Sam, _remember_.)

He helped Dean wrangle the tree on top of the car, putting a blanket up first so the branches didn’t scratch the paint job—the car wasn’t their dad’s Impala, but Dean took cars very seriously, and Sam discovered quickly that if he wanted to stay on Dean’s good side and eventually learn how to drive in town himself, he’d have to treat the car with respect. Even if it was a foreign-made piece of crap, as Dean complained about loudly and constantly.

He sat in the car, quiet, nodding and murmuring his _mmhmm_ s as Dean talked about—something. Sam followed his brother’s cadence more than his words.

He didn’t notice how far he was sinking into both the seat and himself until he felt an unexpected warmth on his shoulder and panicked, just for a moment, lashed out and threw his fist at the source of the warmth and heard his brother’s voice say “ _Woah, Sammy!_ ”

He froze, except for the violent rising and falling of his chest, staring up at Dean.

They were home. The tree was off of the car and on the ground. The car door was open and Dean was standing outside, a few paces away now, and the warmth had just been his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Sam gasped.

Dean flinched, shoving his hands in his pockets like he had to stop himself from reaching out, and took another step back. His eyes were full of hurt, his brow furrowed, but Sam felt nausea roiling in his gut and threw himself out of the car and raced into the house.

*

He didn’t have much in his stomach and that probably helped, but fifteen minutes later he was still kneeling, hovering over the toilet. Dean had not come to check on him, but he could hear his brother in the living room, also hovering, in a different way. Waiting for Sam’s permission to come in.

Sam didn’t give it. Not yet.

It was the money that tipped him. For whatever reason. Not that he hadn’t seen Dean buy things before—though he usually paid with a card—but somehow watching Dean pass the money to the seller woke something _Luke_ in Sam that was sending him spiraling.

That Dean was a person who _bought_ things, and that Luke—that Sam was a person who’d been _bought_.

And Dean was always so incredibly, unbelievably careful with him. Sometimes it made Sam so angry—the way he tiptoed and sidestepped around, the way he was so careful not to use words that _he_ thought might trigger Sam, words that made sense in everyday conversation, words like _own_ and _serve_. Words that had lost their meanings to Sam long ago, but that Dean made so much more conspicuous for his avoidance of them.

No matter what Dean thought, he was not some fragile, breakable thing. He’d saved Dean more than once, sent Azazel screaming back to Hell, but moments like this—moments where he’s huddled and shaking in the bathroom because Dean passed a couple of twenty-dollar bills to some part-time tree seller in a parking lot Christmas tree stand—did not go anywhere to prove that.

There were things that Sam could avoid in this new world he had to navigate. Money was not one of them. And the idea of having this reaction to _money_ , of not being able to keep his cool when things were bought or sold—

Unacceptable. Infuriating.

_Pathetic_.

“Sammy,” Dean said through the door.

Sam leaned his head against the cool porcelain.

“Sammy, it’s okay, you’re okay. Just—say something, would you? Let me hear you.”

Sam closed his eyes.

“Sammy, please?”

Sam started to cry.

*

December twenty-second. C minus three days.

Dean did not say anything about what happened the previous day. Sam had eventually left the bathroom, but it had taken hours, and Dean was cooking dinner when he’d emerged. They didn’t talk about it.

Dean was good about not talking about stuff, but that talent didn’t usually extend to _Sam_ stuff. Dean’s problems, Dean’s pain, Dean’s stress could all be not spoken about. But _Sam’s_ damage, that had to be talked through. Dealt with.

So Sam waited for the other shoe to fall.

He felt drained from the moment he woke up. Miserable. And sick with dread, because if yesterday was any indication, he was going to have a very, very hard road ahead of him with their father’s upcoming visit.

He dragged himself around the apartment all day, half-heartedly reading a few books, doing the dishes despite Dean’s complaints, picking up his room a little bit, and when it was finally time to sit down for lunch, he wasn’t surprised when Dean put down his sandwich with that look that said _let’s talk_.

Sam took an obstinate, large bite of his own sandwich.

“I’m gonna call Dad and tell him not to come,” Dean said.

Sam choked on his sandwich.

Once he’d managed to force the food down his throat, sucking down water to clear the ache, he said, “No. No, no, Dean, no.”

“You’re not ready,” Dean said.

“I’m _ready_ . I _am_. Yesterday was—”

“Yesterday was the first time I’ve seen you that bad in _months_ , Sammy. You were out for hours. I’m not gonna risk that.”

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m ready or not,” Sam snapped.

“You think so?” Dean challenged, his forearms on the table, leaning forward. His voice was rising, and a part of Sam wanted to flinch away from it, but he resisted.

“You don’t,” Sam insisted.

Dean looked like he was about to fire back, but pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair.

“No,” he said. “I don’t, but this is my house, too, and I get to decide who comes and who doesn’t as much as you do, and I’m gonna tell Dad he can’t come.”

And he stood up, like that was that. Like the decision was just his, and he’d made it, end of discussion.

Sam followed him and grabbed him by the arm, surprised as always when Dean allowed him to pull him around so that they were facing.

“This isn’t _fair_ ,” Sam said. “You can’t just decide that—”

“It’s not _fair_ ?” Dean interrupted. “It’s not fucking _fair_ ? What do you _want_ , Sammy? You want me to let Dad back in here to fuck with your head some more? He’s gonna try his best, but you and I _both know_ he’s gonna fuck up, and if you’re already this close to the edge then I’m not gonna sit around and let him—”

“I have to face him some time!” Sam cried, and Dean fell silent. “I have to do this eventually, Dean, _Christ_ , I can’t hide from our _father_ forever, as much as I want to.”

The words were out of his mouth and in the air between them, where he couldn’t rein them in. Couldn’t bring them back.

Dean’s eyes grew dark and dull.

“You see,” he said, and picked the phone up from the cradle.

Sam slammed his fingers down on the hook.

“If you call him, I’ll know you don’t trust me to know what I can handle,” Sam threatened. Dean glared at him, his face flushing with anger, and Sam felt the hand that was not on the phone begin to shake, but he _could not_ let Dean see that. Not right now.

Not when he had to prove that he could do this.

Whether or not Dean saw his hand shake, it didn’t matter much, because he scoffed, an ugly little laugh that took Sam aback.

“You know what you can handle?” Dean echoed, and Sam clenched his hand, pressing harder against the hook. “Have you _met_ you? You are the _last_ person you _ever_ worry about. I know you, Sammy, and you’d shake off a vision seizure before your eyes uncrossed if you thought somebody wanted you to.”

The shock of hearing those words stabbed deep into Sam’s chest, twisting in his ribs and pulling out his oxygen in a quiet exhalation.

Before Dean had time to apologize—which Sam could tell by the falling of his face that he was about to—Sam snapped, “That was _before_.”

Dean’s expression caught itself on the decline and his brow furrowed again, his lip pulling in something of a snarl.

“It was less than a year ago,” he said. “And damn it, Sammy, I’m not gonna let all that progress go because you have to be a tough guy. Let go of the phone.”

Sam pressed the heel of his hand against the hook.

“No.”

Dean’s eyes widened, then darkened.

“Let it go.”

“ _No._ ”

Dean _growled_ and used his free arm to wrap around Sam’s chest, startling him, knocking him off balance, and then holding him firmly while he dialed their father’s number.

It took Sam a moment to recover.

Dean had _never_ put his hands on him like this before. _Never_ tried to control his movement like this, never pinned him. And when he struggled, he realized that for all of the weight he’d put on and for all of the training he’d done and the muscle he’d gained, Dean could hold him pretty effortlessly.

“You _fucking asshole_ ,” Sam shouted, and Dean glared at him, but Sam could feel his arm shaking.

The phone rang, and Sam could hear it, hear it as he thrashed and tried to break the grip that Dean had on him.

He could hear it when the line clicked and he could hear his father’s voice as he said, “ _Dean?_ ”

“Hey, Dad,” Dean grunted past what was an attempt from Sam at an elbow in the ribs. “Listen, wanted to talk about Christmas. I don’t—”

Sam got an arm free and grabbed the phone.

“Dad?” he said.

There was silence for a moment, and Sam made a more successful effort at jabbing Dean in the ribs with his now-free elbow. Dean staggered with a pained gasp, taking a step away.

“ _Sammy?_ ”

His father’s voice was like a blow, and suddenly he felt like Dean—the wind knocked out of him. He hadn’t heard it since the diner, back in June. He never spoke to his father on the phone. Dean would keep their father apprised of Sam’s condition, but this was—

This was the first time they’d spoken on the phone.

“I j-just wanted to say that I—I’m excited to see you,” Sam said, bracing himself against the wall and kicking out as Dean tried to grab him again. But once the words were out, the fight was over, and Dean sagged, defeated.

Another silence.

“ _Yeah? I—yeah. Yeah, son, I’m excited to see you, too._ ”

Their father’s voice was quiet, choked, and Sam realized with some horror that he might be crying. Suddenly, more than just a ploy to get Dean away from the phone, this was a _moment_. He’d affected their father, and it wasn’t fair to just leave it like that.

Now that Dean wasn’t gunning for him, he leaned against the wall, holding the receiver in both hands. “It’s my first Christmas,” he said. “And, uh. I’m glad we’ll all be here for it.”

That was definitely a sniff on the other line, and it made Sam a little anxious.

“ _I’m just—thanks for letting me come by, Sammy. It means a lot. I know it’s not easy._ ”

Sam shuddered against the wall, and Dean was beside him, suddenly, a hand on his shoulder, a look of resignation and concern across his features where anger had been before.

“Um. Here’s Dean,” he said, his voice thin.

“ _Oh—okay. Bye, Sammy._ ”

Sam swallowed hard.

“Bye, D-Dad.”

He handed the phone back to Dean, and walked into the living room, curling up on the couch. He felt heavy. Worn. He didn’t even have the energy to listen to what Dean said to their father, to see if his brother would undo what he’d done, tell their father not to come after all. He supposed Dean would do what he wanted.

Some time later—Sam couldn’t tell how long—he felt the cushions dip next to him, and felt the warmth of Dean’s hand on his arm.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “Um. Dad says he’ll be here Christmas morning. He’s driving in from Arizona.”

Sam nodded without lifting his head.

“I, um. What I did was shitty.”

Sam huffed out a laugh.

“Sam. Sit up, would you? Please?”

With an effort of will and body, Sam did, and looked up to see his brother’s face.

Dean’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Sam could see where he’d wiped away tears. He reached out and put his hand on Dean’s.

“Dean,” he said.

“I’m not your boss,” Dean said, and Sam gripped his hand tighter. “Hey. I’m not. I’m your brother and I take care of you but I’m not your boss, and I can’t tell you what to do.”

“You were worried about me.”

Dean put his arm around Sam’s shoulders slowly, cautiously, and Sam knew he was worried that he’d be rejected so he leaned on his older brother’s chest, and felt Dean’s arm relax on top of him.

“Dude, I’m _always_ worried about you,” he said. “If I could use that as an excuse for being a jackass, I’d be a jackass all day every day.”

Sam tilted his head up to meet Dean’s eyes, and grinned. “That’s different from reality _how_ , exactly?”

Dean scuffed his hair, and Sam ducked away from his hand, laughing.

“You’re such a jerk,” Dean said.

“You taught me,” Sam retorted.

In response Dean grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping through channels until he landed on some nature documentary. He settled back into the couch and Sam settled with him, his ear against Dean’s ribcage, listening to the steady beat of his brother’s heart.

“You change your mind between now and Christmas—”

“I’ll tell you,” Sam promised. “I will, Dean. I’ll tell you. But I want to try.”

Dean didn’t respond, just squeezed Sam’s arm and turned up the volume.

*

December twenty-third.

Sam had started answering the phone about a month ago, as long as it wasn’t their father calling. Dean had sprung for a caller ID so that Sam could practice answering the phone when he knew it would be safe.

When the caller ID read _Singer, Robert_ , it was safe.

“Hello?” Sam said, holding the phone against his cheek, because he knew who it was but he was _practicing_.

“ _Hey, Sammy. It’s Bobby. How’s it going?”_

Sam smiled into the receiver. Bobby played along every time, like Sam didn’t know who it was. Bobby knew about the caller ID, and Bobby knew that Sam knew that, but it didn’t make it any less nice of Bobby to help him figure out how to use phones right.

“I’m good, Bobby. How are you?”

“ _Good, good, kid. Your brother around?_ ’

Sam glanced at the clock on the microwave. “No, he was scheduled til six, so probably another half hour. Everything okay? I can tell him you called.”

“ _Yeah, everything’s fine. And actually I’ll just ask you. Heard you’re havin’ John over for Christmas. First, you doing okay with that?_ ”

Sam hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “I, um. Yeah. It’s kind of—uh, hard, but, yeah. I’m okay. Dean tried to back out of it but I told him not to. So I’m dealing.”

Bobby didn’t say anything for a while, and Sam could all but hear as he processed that reply, parsing it to find the lie in it, if one was there.

Finally, “ _All right, kid. Well, listen. I don’t want to impose or nothing, but when John told me he was coming by for Christmas, it got me wondering about whether you boys might could use some back up. Just...another body around, to, you know. Keep John on his good behavior.”_

Sam thought about it.

He and Dean had spent part of the summer and Sam’s fall break in Sioux Falls with Bobby. He’d been to South Dakota before, once with Walt and once with another hunter, but Sioux Falls was new and Bobby made sure that nobody bothered them while they were there. The open space had been nice, freeing. Sam had gotten to drive a couple of the junker cars that Dean got back into working shape, and he’d spent lots of long afternoons with his brother, sitting under a car and learning about how to put one back together. He’d spent long evenings sitting on Bobby’s porch with a cup of iced tea, cross-legged and listening to what he knew to be carefully-curated stories from Bobby—stories he thought Sam could handle.

It wasn’t _home_ , not the way Morgantown was home, not the way the apartment that Dean had found for them and only them was home, but Bobby had made Sam feel safe at his house.

Bobby made Sam feel safe with him.

“I’d really like to have you here,” Sam said.

The door creaked open and then slammed. Sam controlled the instinctive urge to flinch, to hide, and he barely even moved. Just blinked.

Little victories.

“Heya, Sammy, I’m home!” Dean shouted, and Sam heard the sounds of him unencumbering himself in the entryway, peeling off layers of outerwear and boots and gloves. Making lots of noise so Sam knew who it was.

Sam felt himself smiling. He poked his head around the corner and gestured with the phone receiver. Dean’s eyes widened, and Sam grinned wider.

“Hey Bobby, Dean just got home,” he told Bobby, watching the surprised expression on his brother’s face fade into happy understanding.

“ _Hell, a deaf man could hear that your idjit brother was home,_ ” Bobby groused. “ _He always come in like a herd of damn elephants?_ ”

“Most of the time,” Sam said. “Wanna talk to him?”

“ _Sure, let’s see why that fool boy didn’t think to invite his poor old uncle to Christmas in the first place. Good talkin’ to you, Sam._ ”

“Good talking to you too, Bobby. Here’s Dean.” Dean took the receiver from him, furrowing his brow, and Sam said, “He wants to know why he didn’t get invited to Christmas.”

Dean paled and raised the phone to his ear.

Sam laughed when he heard Bobby start into a rant that had Dean putting some space between the phone and his head, then escaped to his room to finish cleaning.

*

December twenty-fourth.

Bobby showed up first.

He didn’t bother to knock, knowing that the door would be open for him, and so he walked in while Dean and Sam were on the couch watching _Die Hard_. Again.

Dean’s desire to catch Sam up on pop culture was precisely at odds with his desire to watch _Die Hard_ as many times as possible, apparently, so Sam had seen it about ten times so far.

Sam craned his head around Dean, who did not react at all when the door opened, and smiled. “Hi, Bobby!”

“Nice to see that I rate higher than a movie that I know you’ve both seen a million times for one of you, at least.”

“Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!” Dean said along with John McLane, by strange way of greeting. Sam could only tell because he also waved.

“Yeah, yeah, yippee ki-yay, you inhospitable wretch,” Bobby muttered, and Sam squirmed out from under Dean’s arm and crawled off of the couch to grab a duffel from Bobby.

“Dean and I decided that you and Mr.—you and Dad,” Sam corrected himself carefully, “can take my room. I’ll stay on the couch with Dean.”

Bobby shot him a concerned look. “You didn’t have to do that. Me and your daddy might be old, but not so old we can’t sleep on the floor.”

“You’re _guests_ ,” Sam insisted, hefting the duffel onto his shoulder as he led Bobby into his room.

He dropped the duffel next to the bed and turned around to find Bobby watching him.

It was the kind of scrutiny that not too long ago would have made him withdraw, curl into himself, do whatever he could to avoid that focused attention from a hunter. But it was _Bobby_ , and like Dean, Sam knew that Bobby would never hurt him.

(Even though he’d been there that last night with Azazel, even though he’d seen Sam’s mouth painted with Dean’s blood, even though his hands had been white-knuckled around his shotgun—)

( _No_ . Dean had vouched for him, Bobby trusted Dean, and now, a year later, Bobby trusted _Sam_.)

Bobby walked up to him and put a big, callused hand on his shoulder, ducking—only a little, Sam was nearly his height now—to meet his eyes.

“You’re doin’ a big thing, here,” he said quietly. “And I know you’re doin’ it for Dean. You don’t have to do it alone. You need John hauled out for a minute, you give me the word. I’ll take care of him for you.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam said, lowering his eyes.

“Hey.”

He looked back up, and Bobby put his hand on the back of his neck, keeping their eyes locked.

“I’ll take care of _you_ , kid. You do what you can, and you leave the rest to me and Dean. You got it?”

Sam nodded, not trusting himself with words.

“ _Hey!_ ” Dean shouted from the living room. “You two are gonna miss the best part!”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s _all_ the best part,” he complained.

Bobby laughed, and they walked back out together. Dean scooted to the far end of the couch and Sam slid in next to him, Bobby lowering himself onto the other end.

Dean looked at the two of them, and Sam studied his brother’s face as some of the lines and tension that he always carried—young as he was and young as he looked—lifted, for a time. He watched Dean’s lips curve into a quiet, secret smile.

As soon as he realized Sam was looking, the smile turned broader, and he said, “Sammy, I ever told you what my favorite Christmas movie is?”

“ _Die Hard_ ,” Sam sighed.

“ _Die Hard!_ ”

*

They mostly just watched movies for the rest of the night, although they caught up a little bit. Sam made apple cider for everybody, even if it was just the powdered stuff, and it felt good. Homey. Like family, in a way that Sam had only read about before. He was really, really glad that Bobby had come down.

Dean was all the family he _needed_. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t nice to have other people around who cared about him, cared about them both, who understood who they were and cared about them anyway.

There were moments where Luke still whispered in Sam’s ear, where he reminded him that Bobby was a hunter and that you don’t trust hunters, but then Bobby would ask him about school or remark about how they should come up to Sioux Falls for his next break, and Sam could shut Luke up for the most part.

Luke was quiet that night, while they sat on the couch in front of the flickering light of the television, the cider in their mugs warming their hands.

Bobby went to bed at about ten o’clock, blaming his long drive, and it wasn’t long after that Sam’s eyes started drooping, too, so he and Dean pulled out the couch.

Dean smoothed out the blankets while Sam grabbed the pillows from the closet. “I hope you don’t kick like you used to,” he grumbled.

“I probably do, and now I got nobody to bitch at me for it,” Dean said, tucking the sheets in at the foot of the pull-out. “So just kick back.”

Sam rolled his eyes and placed the pillows carefully on the bed, sitting down and sliding under the blankets.

“I’m _wrecked,_ ” he said as Dean climbed in next to him. “Why am I so tired?”

Dean took a moment to settle in before turning his head and saying, “Because you’re nervous about Dad showing up tomorrow.”

Sam didn’t say anything to that.

“He’s not staying for long. Just overnight. He’ll be gone on the twenty-sixth and things will be back to normal. And tomorrow’s gonna be busy anyway. Just cooking’s gonna take most of the day, and you can help me in the kitchen so you’re not by yourself. Then we’ll eat and unwrap presents and watch a movie and go to bed, and he’ll take off in the morning. Easy. And if we end up having to talk for a while you know I can run my mouth better than anybody so nobody else has to—”

“Dean.”

Silence.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Dean huffed. “A guy could take that the wrong way, Sammy, geez.”

Sam twisted around until he was facing his brother, Dean’s face barely visible in the streetlight glow that slanted through the blinds.

“I’m _okay_ ,” he said. “You’re here. Bobby’s here. Dad’s gonna try his best and so am I. I need you to be okay, too.”

A sliver of light lit the way that Dean smiled, barely, just a tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m okay, Sammy,” he said. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Sam shrugged.

Dean reached out and pulled the back of Sam’s head so that their foreheads touched, and Sam felt himself relax, drawn back to the first days he’d shared space like this with Dean, back to the days when it was an unthinkable luxury, something precious that he had to tuck away inside himself for when it got bad again.

He took a moment to marvel at the fact that he could take it for granted, now—that he believed that things wouldn’t get bad again.

“This means so much to me,” Dean was saying when Sam came back to the present. “Havin’ you and Dad and Bobby here. It’s—everything.”

Sam smiled, basking in those words—in the knowledge that, for once, he was able to take care of his brother instead of the other way around.

“Go to sleep,” he said, and Dean took his hand away, turning over and yanking on the blankets.

Sam had made sure to take more than his share when they’d settled in, so he just grinned and let Dean even it out.

*

December twenty-fifth.

Christmas day.

Sometimes Sam could convince himself that Dean had magic powers.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes against the pink dawn light, and saw that underneath their Christmas tree were _presents_.

Plural.

Some of them were from Bobby, Sam could tell, because they were in different wrapping paper. He saw his own, meticulously wrapped and addressed to Dean, Bobby, and their father in his own precise handwriting, and he saw the ones that Dean had placed there before, but there were more. And he saw that most of them had his name on them. How Dean had managed to get out of the tiny pull-out bed without waking him, he had no idea.

He shoved his brother, hard.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean sprang up, flailing momentarily and sticking his hand under his pillow. Sam’s eyes widened, wondering if Dean still slept with a gun under his pillow, which he _definitely_ should have told Sam about before they had gone to sleep. But Dean’s hand came up empty, and his eyes cleared when he looked at Sam.

“What the fuck time is it,” Dean rasped.

Sam felt vaguely guilty for waking him up like that, but he felt more—overwhelmed, which was starting to feel like irritation. “I don’t know, Dean, but what the hell is that under the tree?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, and Sam couldn’t tell if he was confused or pissed, but he said, “I swear to God there better be a tiny chupacabra or something under the fucking tree because it’s not even sunrise.”

But he was fighting a smile as he said it, so Sam scowled and crossed his arms.

Dean made a big show of getting out of bed and investigating the unexpected pile of presents under the tree.

“You’re the brains of this operation,” Dean said, “but it appears to me that there are _Christmas presents_ under this Christmas tree.” He crossed his arms and peered narrowly at the pile. “Yeah. This is definitely our kind of case.”

“That’s way too much,” Sam protested. “Dean, I only got you one thing.”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “Come on, dude, I got a ten-year backlog I have to try to make up for.”

“So do I!” Sam cried.

Dean frowned, then, and walked back to the couch, sitting on the edge.

“Hey, it’s okay, Sammy. Big siblings always get more stuff for the kids. You’re the youngest one here, so it’s _normal_ for you to get the most presents. If it makes you too mad, my birthday’s in a month. You can go crazy then. But don’t—don’t freak out about this. Please. I wanted to do this for you.”

Sam tightened his arms over his chest, but felt himself unwind a little bit.

“As long as it’s normal,” he muttered.

“It is,” Dean promised. “Hey. Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Sam loosened his arms and turned more fully to his brother. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean grinned, stretched, and stood up. “I’m gonna go make some coffee. Figure we’re up. Bobby’ll probably wake up as soon as he smells the joe. Want first shower?”

“Wow, it’s a Christmas miracle,” Sam said flatly, but he matched his brother’s smile, and ignored the middle finger that Dean sent his way before he turned and took Dean up on his offer of first dibs at hot water.

Merry Christmas indeed.

*

Bobby cooked breakfast for them, despite Dean’s protests, on the basis that Dean and Sam were cooking lunch so it was only fair.

He made omelettes, big ones with lots of vegetables, to Dean’s dismay and Sam’s delight. Even _spinach_. Sam had not realized that spinach existed in their apartment.

“It didn’t,” Bobby said when Sam mentioned that. “I brought it with me ‘cause I figured there was a fifty-percent chance Dean’d be dead of a vitamin deficiency by the time I got here.”

Dean protested weakly while Sam laughed, but ate his omelette all the same.

Sam was halfway done with the dishes, Bobby and Dean talking over their second cups of coffee, when the knock came at the door.

Sam froze.

Dean looked over at him, brow furrowed.

“You need me to be with you? Bobby can get the door,” he said quietly.

Sam shook his head, clearing it, and rinsed the cup in his hands.

“I’m good,” he said. “Go let him in.”

Dean didn’t go straight to the door, though, instead walking into the kitchen and giving Sam’s shoulder a tight squeeze, his eyes boring into Sam’s, a pained half-smile on his face.

“Don’t leave him outside, it snowed,” Sam said.

Dean let him go and went to the door.

Opened the door.

Oh, _god_.

Sam put the final plate carefully in the drying rack, wiped his hands on his pants, and turned around.

“Hey, Dean,” his father was saying, his arms wrapping around Dean, a big smile on his face.

“Hey, Dad,” Dean said in return, returning the hug, his head resting against their father’s shoulder when they were close enough, his eyes closed. Happy. Content.

Sam stuck his hands in his pockets, took them back out, stuck them back in.

Bobby shot him a significant look that he ignored.

His father was at his house, and he was here to see both of his sons, and Sam could do this.

Dean and their father parted, and John’s—Dad’s—eyes turned to Sam.

“Hey, Sam,” he said, his smile turning softer but no less genuine.

“Hey, Dad,” Sam said, stepping out of the kitchen.

A moment passed that was so fraught with potential that Sam felt the air sucked out of his lungs.

His father did not open his arms for a hug, but he left them loose at his sides, and Dean’s eyes were on Sam, and Sam could feel the weight of his will for this to _be okay_.

So Sam walked up to his father, to the man who had bought and sold Luke, to the man who had captured Walt and helped burn his body, to the man who had raised him for four years that Sam could not remember but that Dean promised were years filled with love and worry and care—

Sam walked up to him and hugged him.

His father’s arms closed around him so gently that he almost didn’t feel them, but he heard the hitch in his father’s breath, as close up as he was, and he felt it when his father’s hand slid up to cup the back of his head, guiding his face against his shoulder, just like Dean had done.

It was not perfect. Sam knew the weight of his father’s hands from being dragged through forest and from being taken out of his motel room to be sold beneath a streetlight.

But it was _okay_.

*

Sam sat by the Christmas tree, overwhelmed by the quantity of boxes that had his name on them.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said plaintively.

Bobby laughed and slid a box over to him that said _to Sam, from Bobby_. “Open that one first, save the good stuff for last,” he said, and sat back with his eggnog cupped between his hands.

( _Eggnog._ Eggnog was _amazing_ and Sam knew that at his first taste he made one of those faces he got sometimes, where he was so taken aback by a new, pleasant experience he never could have imagined before that he couldn’t control his expression. Dean always laughed when he did it, but there was something jagged under the laugh every time.)

Sam smiled at Bobby, then peeled away the wrapping carefully.

Dean groaned at his side.

“Just rip it off, Sammy!” he said. “Like this!”

Dean tore into the present that their father had brought him, paper flying in all directions. Sam was grudgingly impressed, if also a little alarmed. But Dean’s grin when he saw the gift, a couple of iron implements that Sam was pretty sure were for working on cars, was big enough to light up the room.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, and their father smiled back at him.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I expect the Impala to get a tune-up before I leave.”

Sam half-listened to their conversation about what was wrong with Dean’s favorite car while he finished methodically unwrapping Bobby’s present to him, gasping when the paper fell away.

A complete, hardbound set of the _Narnia_ books was on his lap, gilt-edged pages, embossed titles on the beautiful covers. He ran his hand over the front of _The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe_.

He remembered his elation when Dean had bought him the dog-eared paperback copy that he still kept in his lampstand. He remembered that feeling of wonder at being worth _gifts_.

He felt tears sting his eyes and he looked up at Bobby.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, kid,” Bobby replied, looking a little misty himself, but that was maybe just because Sam was crying. Everything looked a little foggy.

Dean’s grin looked especially foggy when Sam turned to him, and he wiped at his eyes.

The rest of the unwrapping process was a bit of a blur—in many ways. Dean had gotten him _way_ too many books, CDs, movies, and a rugged new coat, swearing up and down that it was all on sale and that it hadn’t been any trouble to get it but Sam knew better. He also knew better than to make a big deal out of it, because Dean’s eyes lit up so bright when he opened the presents that Sam was pretty sure he was enjoying that more than opening his own.

Sam had carved knife-holders for Bobby and their dad (their dad’s being a little more rushed, given the lack of advance warning), and had made a set of coasters for Dean from damaged paperback covers of his favorite books—so mostly Vonnegut, with some Huxley and Bradbury thrown in, too. They were all warmly received, and Sam felt good about it. Proud that he was able to make stuff that his family liked, and proud that he was able to keep watching while they unwrapped them instead of taking his eyes away and bracing himself for their disappointment.

He was proud.

There was one last present under the tree, with Sam’s name on it—a statistical probability, for sure, but this one said _from Dad_.

He pulled it out with hands that only shook a little bit.

“It’s not much,” his father warned, but he’d heard that warning from everyone and he’d said it, too, so he knew what that meant. He knew it didn’t mean _I didn’t value you enough to get you something nice_ . It just meant _I’m worried about how you will react to this because I want you to like it_.

That alone was a gift.

He smiled up at his father, just a brief thing, before going back to the present. “I’m sure I’ll love it,” he said, and he was surprised to find that he really did mean it.

He peeled the paper back, and felt Dean’s presence behind him, sitting close because he could tell that this was tough for Sam. He felt bolstered by his brother’s closeness, and peeled the tape away with more confidence.

Beneath the paper was a leatherbound book. No title, and the pages felt plastic beneath his fingers. He’d never seen anything like it before. He looked up at his father, feeling like he should say something grateful, but feeling mostly confused.

“Open it,” his father said.

Sam obeyed.

He opened the front cover and heard Dean gasp behind him. Behind a thin, transparent sheet of plastic, four pictures sat in sheaths, old and worn and a bit frayed around the edges, but instantly recognizable.

He would know Dean’s smile anywhere, any time.

He did not know the sweet-faced blonde woman who was holding a baby that Sam knew to be himself, but he could infer.

“That’s us,” Sam said.

“You, me, Dean, and your mom,” his father said. “I don’t have many pictures, but I figured you need them more than I do. And you’ll keep them safe.”

Sam couldn’t reply as he flipped through the book, marveling at the impossible glimpse into his own forgotten childhood. His father, so many years younger, lying on the couch with a sleeping baby Sam on his chest. Dean, feeding him baby food. His mother, his beautiful mother whose eyes looked like Dean’s and whose smile looked like his own, cradling him and staring at him with wide eyes like she could not believe he existed.

“You kept these all those years?” Dean asked, his voice hushed.

“They were the only family pictures that survived the fire,” their father said. “Everything I had of your mom and Sammy. Of course I kept them.”

Toward the back of the book were a few pictures from _after_ the fire, too. Himself, a round-faced toddler, and Dean, a little boy whose eyes were already too heavy with the weight of what he knew, but who still smiled at Sam in the photographs. One in particular, taken by someone else, Sam couldn’t fathom who, of the three of them: Sam, Dean, and their father, both boys on John’s lap, John’s eyes soft and fond as he looked at his sons.

_He loves you, Sammy. You don’t remember how he looked at you but I do._

Dean would say that, sometimes, or things like it, when Sam asked about his past. How much their father doted on him. How loved he was.

How loved he was still.

Sam scooted to the edge of the sofa, putting his head by his father’s knee, leaning it gently against him. He continued looking through the book.

“Thank you, Dad,” he whispered.

He felt his father’s hand in his hair, gentle and brief.

“You’re welcome, son,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”

*

Dinner was amazing.

When he had the time and means to do something special, Dean was _remarkable_ in the kitchen. He always made sure Sam was well-fed, and he cooked good stuff, for sure, but this was on a different level.

First of all there was _so much food_. It had been a year since Sam had started living with Dean, though the first few months were still a little dicey with food, on the road as they were, but since settling in Morgantown he’d never missed a meal and was always content. Still, they were living on a budget, and to get enough food to feed two voracious teenage boys, sometimes quality had to be the sacrifice.

Not on Christmas, apparently.

Dean took him through careful steps of how to prepare each dish, letting him do the steps he was comfortable with. Bobby and their father sat and drank one beer each and then eggnog and cider, watching them and commenting sometimes but mostly just talking, catching up in a way that seemed to surprise both of them with its easiness. Sam got the feeling that both of them were inclined to drink more than that, but were holding back, perhaps for his benefit.

That didn’t thrill him, but he didn’t complain about it, either, because he could easily pretend that this was the way it always was. It wasn’t like he _actually_ knew better.

When the cooking was done the entire apartment was warm, almost too warm, with the heat of ovens opened and closed and warm foods cooling on the stovetop. Sam set the table with his father’s help, and they all sat down.

Sam sat between Dean and Bobby, which put him across from his father. That was okay. It was okay.

Dean had his fork in his hand and looked ready to dig in when their father cleared his throat.

“I’d like to say grace,” he said, sounding awkward.

Bobby gave him an odd look.

Dean hesitated, then put his fork down.

“Sure,” he said, holding his hands out. Their father took one hand, and when Bobby took John’s other hand, Sam realized that they were meant to all hold hands, so he touched Dean’s and Bobby’s hands hesitantly.

Dean gripped him, tight and grounding.

Their father inhaled deeply.

“I don’t know if anybody’s listening to stuff like this,” he said. “Sometimes I sure hope there’s not, because if there is, we could’ve used your help a few times.”

Dean snorted.

“But if there _is_ anyone listening, then thank you for this. For family. For...for another chance to make this right. To make this family work. I swear I won’t take it for granted this time.”

Dean squeezed Sam’s hand, and Sam squeezed back.

They ate, not in silence, but in quiet.

*

Sam washed the dishes, despite everyone’s protests. The dishes were good for him. The tap was relaxing, the motions monotonous, easy to process. He didn’t have to think when he did the dishes.

And he’d been doing a lot of thinking in the last few hours, so this was a welcome respite.

He was so caught up in his zen patterns that he jumped when a hand lowered to his shoulder.

“Sorry,” his father said, taking a step back, lifting his hands.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, regulating his breathing. “It’s fine, you just startled me.”

The guilt in his father’s eyes was too much for the tiny upset, but he understood. Everything about the two of them was amplified, and it would be for a long time, if not forever.

“Can I help you?” his father asked.

“I’m almost done,” Sam said, gesturing to the small pile of dishes left. “I’ve got it. You can—um. You can stay, if you want, though.”

His father smiled, just a little. “I’d like that, if it’s okay with you.”

“It’s okay with me.”

“Okay, then.”

The silence that fell was awkward, but not terrible. Sam finished the dishes, placing them carefully on the drying rack, then dried his hands and put the pots and pans that were already dry away. He covered a few dishes and stuck them in the refrigerator, wiped down the countertop, and realized that after that there was nothing else to do to stall.

“Thank you for having me over, Sam. I can’t say how much I wanted this.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s okay.”

His father scrubbed his face with one hand.

“You—you can’t know how much it means to me that you did this. I don’t know that you understand what—”

“I _understand_.”

His father cut off, and Sam frowned, a little taken aback at himself, but he didn’t take it back.

Of _course_ he understood.

“This is my family, too,” Sam said. “And you’re my dad, and this is just as weird for me as it is for you.”

His father’s face fell, and he said, “Sam, I know there’s no way for me to say how sorry I am that—”

“And I’m not asking you to,” Sam said. “None of us can _fix_ it. But don’t act like I’m not part of this, like I’m just giving you a present by letting you come here. This is for me and Dean, too. It only gets better if we make it better. Right?”

“Right,” his father said quietly.

“And that means working at it, and that means having _time_ to work at it. So—you’re welcome. Thank you for coming. Thank you for making this as normal as it could be.”

“I wish it could’ve been more normal for you, son,” his father said, and Sam knew he meant the whole thing—the whole fifteen and a half years, not just this holiday.

“Me, too,” Sam said, and he didn’t duck away when his father touched his shoulder.

They didn’t hug, either, but he didn’t move away.

*

Dean stretched out and turned the lamp off.

Sam huddled beneath the covers.

“You did a real good job today, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice hushed.

Sam shrugged.

“Dad did his best, too,” he replied.

“I’m not talkin’ to Dad right now, I’m talkin’ to you,” Dean said. “ _You_ did a good job. You were real brave.”

Sam let the praise settle him.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” Dean said, before burrowing his head in his pillow.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

*

Dean hugged their father as he stood by the door, ready to leave.

“Glad you could make it, Dad,” he said, then stepped away, leaving the empty space for Sam to take.

He did, but this time he couldn’t find it in himself to open his arms. His father seemed to sense that, and instead put a hand on his arm.

“Good to see you, Sammy,” he said. “Thanks for having me.”

“Good to see you, Dad,” Sam said, dredging up a smile for him.

The moment that followed was expectant but unfruitful, and John took his hand away, picking up his duffel bag and smiling sadly before he left.

The door closed and Sam felt like he could breathe again.

Dean was behind him before Sam could even begin to articulate that he needed him to be, and he let himself sag into the hug that Dean enveloped him in.

“You did good, Sammy,” Dean said into his ear. “You did so good, Sammy. It’s done.”

Dean was wrong, but that was okay. Dean could be wrong all he wanted as long as he kept holding Sam together like that.

*

They saw Bobby off the next day with a promise to visit Sioux Falls during Sam’s spring break. Bobby, in turn, promised to let Sam drive some better cars so he could be ready to get his driver’s license in May when he turned sixteen. They exchanged hugs—no backing away this time, as Bobby folded his arms around Sam in an embrace that smelled like campfire smoke and engines and felt like safety—and Bobby went on his way.

The apartment was quiet.

Dean cooked up some leftover ham and macaroni and cheese for lunch, setting it on a plate in front of Sam. He startled at the sound of ceramic on the table, and realized he’d been so out of it that he hadn’t even noticed Dean was done.

He’d barely noticed Dean was cooking at all.

“Good thing there’s a couple more days of the Christmas break,” Dean said lightly, nudging Sam aside as he sat down with his own plate. “You look pretty zoned out, dude.”

“I guess so,” Sam said, picking up his fork and poking at the macaroni.

“Hey. You did a good job, don’t let yourself think you didn’t.”

Sam swallowed hard against a lump in his throat, and tucked his feet up onto the couch until he was sitting cross-legged, pulled into himself, small and protected.

“I wasn’t—I wanted to be better than that. I did,” he said. “I wanted to be his _son_. I couldn’t do it. He did everything right, Dean. That book—”

“—wasn’t nearly enough to make up for what he did to you,” Dean said, his voice tight. “Sam. No. If you can forgive him, _great_. But don’t you ever forget. Don’t you ever forget because you can’t ever feel like you don’t deserve your anger. You hear me?”

Sam shrugged miserably, placing his fork on the table and drawing his knees up against his chest. “He’s _trying_.”

“So are you,” Dean said fiercely. “A photo album isn’t gonna make him not have done what he did. Okay? You held it together, you let him into your _home_. That’s all he could ask for. Hell, that’s more than he could expect. So don’t you feel bad. Don’t you do that.”

Sam gave in, then, and nodded, scooting closer to Dean, who draped an arm around his shoulders.

“Did you have a good Christmas, Dean?” Sam asked.

Dean’s arm slid up so that Sam’s neck was in the crook of his elbow, and he brought Sam closer.

“Any Christmas I get to spend with my kid brother is a great Christmas,” he said. “Eat your lunch. That mug’s got eggnog in it.”

Sam smiled and picked up his fork.

Eggnog was pretty awesome. Christmas was pretty awesome.

And being Dean’s brother was pretty awesome, too.

 


End file.
